Mercenaries
by JH22
Summary: A Khajiit Dovahkiin needs help. But when nothing goes as planned, and he's hired the most beautiful mercenary around, will the Dragonborn's feelings doom them both?


"Damn it all," the Khajiit Dovahkiin growled to himself, tail flicking angrily. He glared at Shadowmere, hoping the beautiful horse would offer some sort of advice; the stallion stared at him plainly with red eyes. Dovahkiin huffed and shook his head. He gave the brown horse a pat on the head and considered his options. After his prison break from the Cidhna Mine, he was anxious going back to Markarth. He had travelled from Riverwood to the western city, not really wanting to spend the night in any particular place in case someone still had it out for him. The Dovahkiin had to stop a few times during his travels to care for Shadowmere. Unfortunately, dragons also liked to attack the town he was staying at while Shadowmere recovered. Dovahkiin finally gave up and spent a few nights in Rorikstead after killing Nahagliiv. Shadowmere had taken a bad hit to the hip and needed the extra days to recover.

Afterwards, the Dovahkiin had galloped almost non-stop to Markarth, avoiding bandit castles and Forsworn camps anywhere he could. Dovahkiin led his beloved horse to a stall and tied him in, flipping a coin to the stable master to insure the stallion was properly cared for. He turned towards the gate, laid his ears flat against his head and padded towards the guards. Both regarded him with minor distaste, but one blinked in recognition.

"Hey," the Stormcloak whispered as he passed, "I know who you are, Storm-Blade. Hail Sithis." Storm-Blade gave a sidelong glance to the guard and proceeded into Markarth.

The assignment Astrid had given him was almost impossible to complete alone. Of course, bringing any other warrior outside of the Dark Brotherhood came with great risk, but the Dovahkiin needed another set of hands. He had heard of a particularly strong and well-trained mercenary currently living in the Silver-Blood Inn from Erik the Slayer. Storm-Blade had led Erik to a sad death by the claws of a troll while searching for Cicero, and after a brief mourning period and grudgingly escorting Esbern to Riverwood to meet and make merry with Delphine, he returned to Astrid and told her of Cicero's 'demise'. He desperately wanted to kill the jester for the mercenary's sacrifice, but the pitiful man wasn't worth the energy required to slit his throat. When he saw Cicero again, he gave the man a brutal beating and several deep cuts; paying the three hundred septim fine was worth it.

Dovahkiin stood outside the Silver-Blood Inn, glad the cowl Astrid gave him shielded his eyes from the sun. He pushed the door open and walked into the warm, soft light of the inn. The golden Dwemer door swung closed behind him, but Strom-Blade didn't pause, merely scanning the room, eyes locking on a heavily armored man sipping a beer cautiously in front of the fireplace. He walked forward and sat at the bar, ordering a bottle of Nord mead to blend in a bit and watched the man. During his stay at the bar, the mercenary talked with several people but never left his seat in front of the fireplace.

Storm-Blade had relinquished five hundred septims for Erik the Slayer's services, he wondered if this mercenary would charge more. The Khajiit swallowed a mouthful of mead to calm his nerves before slipping from the bar chair to the mercenary. The man looked up as the Khajiit approached. Storm-Blade flicked the five hundred septims at the mercenary and stood over him, watching smugly as the man counted the money.

"Consider yourself hired."

"Name's Vorstag," the mercenary said, heaving himself to his feet, "Let's go." Storm-Blade smiled and clapped the mercenary on the shoulder. Vorstag was huge, with thick iron armour, a large sword, and a well-made bow. Volumes of brown locks framed his face, and a beautiful red swirl was tattooed under his eye. Storm-Blade thought of his own war paint; the fur on the left side if his face was dyed blood red, as if he had rubbed his face on the corpse of his enemies. On occasion, Dovahkiin did, after a particularly challenging dragon slaying. Vorstag followed him dutifully out of Markarth, grabbed a horse while the Khajiit readied Shadowmere, and they were off.

Their travels weren't all too exciting. They talked, they argued, they killed wolves by the dozen, and stomped frostbite spiders into the snow. But, every once in awhile Dovahkiin would catch Vorstag looking at him after a tough kill, drenched in blood and gore and breathing heavily with some sort of morbid fascination; the mercenary would also stare softly though black eyelashes at him while they sat side by side to share heat around their evening fire.

Storm-Blade thought, while resting in a bedroll one night, he had formed some sort of connection with the brawny mercenary. He promptly shook his head and flicked his pierced ears, telling himself this relationship was merely formal, held together only because of the extra five hundred septims in Vorstag's pocket. But there were some sort of awkwardly romantic mannerisms the two shared; on more than one occasion Vorstag had to drag the Dragonborn away from a drunken brawl gone too far. The mercenary held him close, arm wrapped around his waist, hand rubbing the Storm-Blade's hip thoughtfully. When Vorstag caught vampirism during a misadventure Dovahkiin slipped him a potion to cure the disease; that night, while the mercenary slept and let the potion do its job, the Khajiit sat by him on the bed, leaning against the wall, wondering what he would do if Vorstag woke up and went on a rampage; he realized killing the mercenary was something he couldn't bring himself to do. He spent the remainder of the night carding his fingers through Vorstag's knotted hair, absentmindedly braiding the thick brown curls. What was wrong?

The Dovahkiin certainly wasn't romantically challenged; after he had returned the Golden Claw to Camilla and Lucan Vallerius in Riverwood, Camilla came to him in his room at the Inn and promptly made love to him. Of course, the Dragonborn never mentioned this to Sven or his rival for Lucan's sister. Every time the Dovahkiin stopped by the Trader to unload some weight and gain some coin, Camilla would approach him and they would have a hearty romp on the sheets. They were never quiet during their nights together, and Storm-Blade often wondered how Sven never heard their cries of passion. In fact, there was a damsel in every town. Before Lydia was killed by a troll on the way to Hrothgar, they had loud, wild, passionate sex at the base of the mountain after she had discovered him attempting to relieve some pressure (Lydia claimed it was her duty as a housecarl to make sure all of her charge's needs were satisfied). Astrid couldn't seem to keep her hands off of him, despite her marriage to the werewolf blacksmith. Aela the Huntress of the Companions also took a liking to him, perhaps it was his fur that got the she-wolf so riled up; clearly, the Dragonborn had no problem with women.

When the Dovahkiin held his drinking contest with Sam, he had woken up to a pile of vomit on his pillow, a pounding headache, and a sore back and bottom. Finding a naked, unconscious Sam on the floor didn't help either. After all his adventures settling things with Sam, Storm-Blade realized he had given away his body to another man; he had sat down at a tavern in Riften and promptly drank himself stupid. Erik the Slayer watched over him that night, and helped him through the painful hangover in the morning. The Dragonborn, still too hung over to think straight, had come to him during the night, complaining of a headache. He had stumbled into Erik's room, blinding headache slowing his brain as he took in the sight of Erik's nude body, hand around his turgid penis, pumping furiously.

The Dragonborn still didn't react to the very naked, very aroused mercenary as he gimped toward the bed and collapsed into Erik's lap.

"Please," the Dovahkiin muttered, "Sleep with me... I'm so..." his last words faltered as he slowly drifted off into a light sleep. It was only later, after waking up with Erik's fingers rubbing against his prostate and the mercenary's hand pumping his flesh did the Storm-Blade realize his words had clearly been misinterpreted. But he didn't fight Erik's advances, letting the Nord's cock slide in and out of his body until they were both utterly spent and oversensitive.

He woke up in Erik the Slayer's arms, naked as the day he was born, tail wrapped comfortably around the mercenary's thigh. The Khajiit slipped from the warm, comfortable bed and hauled his pants on, shivering as bare feet touched cold wood floors. He padded silently from the room and to the river, shucking his pants off again to slide into the cold water and wash the semen from his body. His sensitive nose wrinkled as the smell of sex filled his nostrils. The Dragonborn settled against a rock warming in the morning sun, thinking of his sexual escapades. He wondered why he didn't stop Erik from pounding him senseless, and glared at his nether regions, hidden under the water, at perking up at the thought of the deed. He stiffened at Erik's voice calling his name, promptly rushing out of water, ruffling his fur to dry, and slipping his pants with some difficulty back over his naughty bits. He had just finished lacing the back of the garment over his tail when Erik appeared with Shadowmere and the rest of his armor. Esbern followed cautiously, and they headed towards Erik's demise.

After Erik died the Dovahkiin vowed never to touch another being - be it man or woman - again.

Since the few weeks the Dragonborn had traveled with Vorstag – long after the job for Astrid had been completed, keeping his promise had been difficult. So now, laying in his bedroll, the sleeping mercenary just to the left of him, the Dragonborn apologized to every god and goddess that he could think of, silently promising to pray at every temple, and kicked the blanket off, throwing his leg over Vorstag's hip, body following. Vorstag still didn't wake up, even when the lusty Storm-Blade wiggled his hips while peeling his undershirt off.

The mercenary was a heavy sleeper, the Khajiit learned after a saber toothed cat strayed into their camp and pounced Shadowmere; who in turn had squealed quite loudly, successfully waking the Dragonborn up, who had to all but Shout Vorstag awake so they could kill the cat. The Khajiit roamed Vorstag's bare torso with light hands. The mercenary had a bit of fuzz between strong pecs, and a dark, coarse trail of hair leading into his undergarment. Abs appeared and disappeared as the Nord slept, blissfully unaware of the Dragonborn's sinful gaze. The Storm-Blade bent down, licking the mercenary's torso from bellybutton to collarbone. Vorstag shivered as the Khajiit's rough tongue passed over his skin, the cold night air making his nipples hard. Storm-blade giggled to himself and relaxed over Vorstag; he lapped lazily at the mercenary's neck and dragged his claws down the man's ribs. He smiled as Vorstag's muscles tightened as he brushed ticklish spots. The mercenary grumbled and opened his eyes, tensing as he processed the Dragonborn draped over him.

The Storm-Blade wriggled his hips over the mercenary's groin and sat back up, letting his weight rest on Vorstag's crotch. Vorstag stared at the Khajiit a bit longer before fully taking in the situation. His eyes widened and he sat up quickly, causing the Dragonborn to fall backwards spreading himself out on the mercenary's legs. He purred and wrapped his legs around Vorstag's waist. Vorstag looked down at him, hands barely brushing the Storm-Blade's thighs, and lifted the Khajiit, twisting the Dragonborn off of his legs and letting him drop from the warmth of his body to the cool of the dirt they were sleeping on. Dovahkiin mewled angrily at the rejection and glared at the retreating mercenary.

After a time, Dovahkiin sighed, curled back up in his bedroll, and dozed off. He woke up around sunrise, still feeling dejected, but perked up when he found Vorstag hauling the thick saddle onto his horse's shoulders. The Dragonborn hauled himself to his feet and yanked his armor on. He hauled Shadowmere's lighter saddle onto the horse's withers and pushed the freshly cleaned iron bit between the horse's teeth. Vorstag must've woken up early to take care of the tack. Dovahkiin noticed the bit was a little too clean. Perhaps Vorstag had let out some pent up energy on the intricately crafted piece of metal. The Dragonborn mounted his horse and turned around to face the mercenary.

"There's a place up in the mountains not far from here I want to visit," the Dovahkiin said, nudging Shadowmere forward. Vorstag grunted and kicked his horse as well, trotting placidly to the right of the brown horse. They rode on in an awkward silence for a long while before Vorstag spoke up. "What is your real name, Dragonborn?"

Storm-Blade blanched and wrung the reins in his hands. "Why…. why do you ask?" He flicked his tail nervously; genuinely hoping a dragon would notice their presence climbing the hills towards the mountains and decide to try to make a meal of them. But the Divines were frowning on him, and no such miracle dragon appeared.

"Dragonborn and Storm-Blade are obviously titles," Vorstag began, "You have to have a name." The Khajiit narrowed his eyes and pinned his ears to his head.

"My name is Prisoner," he began, "when I was very young - young enough to still be unnamed in Elsweyr, I was kidnapped by slave traders. They threw me on a boat to Skyrim - somewhere around Solitude I think; the guards were rather stupid, because I never answered to any name, they just called me Prisoner. At that age…I didn't know any better. So that was my name, the one used when I was thrown on the selling block, the one used when I was freed from labor, the one used when I was sent to the block.." He stole a nervous glance at Vorstag. The mercenary was looking at him with great concern, scrutinizing him with the sharpness of a hawk and the ferocity of a frost troll. Prisoner worried his tongue on a long canine, applying more pressure when Vorstag narrowed his eyes.

The mercenary nodded in defeat, and Prisoner held back a sigh of relief. They rode on in a more comfortable silence. The weather grew cold; Prisoner wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders, his fur bristling in the wind. Vorstag did nothing, his Nordic blood keeping him warm. Dovahkiin rolled his eyes at the mercenary and hunched closer to Shadowmere. Finally they came to the Word Wall.

Prisoner dismounted and snuck up the stairs. He could feel the pulsing in his chest; he drew faster towards the carved runes. The Dragonborn sighed as he approached the wall, feeling the Word of Power reach out into his mind. _Iiz_…_Ice form_…

Vorstag shouted, and the dragon landed with a _thud_.


End file.
